


The Wild Things

by Undercover_banana



Category: The Epic of Gilgamesh
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epic Bromance, F/M, Giving Humbaba some more character, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sci-Fi AU, Some adventures from the sumerian tablets are included, The gods manipulate everyone, but don't expect them to take up the whole story, well sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Undercover_banana/pseuds/Undercover_banana
Summary: The earth is dark and deep, but beyond them is the great city. Beyond them is light, glory, and technology beyond any barbarian's dreams. Inside the walls of Uruk, greatness lies alongside terror.Enkidu has walked on both grounds, seen the wild rivers and the city walls. Once, he convinced a dormant monster to step outside. Once, he grappled a king to the ground. There is no turning back, only the road ahead.And miles away, Humbaba lies dormant in the forest of cedar with only the memories of a friend for comfort.
Relationships: Enkidu & Humbaba (Mesopotamian Mythology), Enkidu/Gilgamesh (Mesopotamian Mythology), Enkidu/Shamhat (Mesopotamian Mythology)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	1. One

No one enters the wilderness outside town. No one enters the woods, dense and thick with beasts. Even the wastelands outside the city walls are bare, the vast space taken by miners, farmers, and opportunists with a death wish. But it isn’t like the soil is fertile. It’s been overused, they say, stripped of its usefulness. No one goes there anymore.

And just as often, no one comes back.

If a person were to climb on Uruk’s walls, walking sure-footed over every ancient brick, stepping over the sizzling energy fields, their view of humanity’s settlement would be about the best anyone could find. Save the square, open-roofed top of the palace in the center of town. But it’s more likely any simpleton wouldn’t be able to find his way there. How else would the king have a moment of peace and quiet in his life? Then again, this account is digressing. As incoherent as this tale is, therein lies a very true point.

So there’s a person on the walls. No one’s allowed to stand up there besides guards and security drones, but perhaps this person was particularly stubborn. Perhaps they fought and pushed, bickering their way through authorities and walls of startled onlookers. Perhaps, despite all odds, they made it to the top of the walls. There’s a warm, crispy wind that isn’t quite touched by the clutter, the city smells far below. The air tastes wild, and this person feels as if they’re looking on from far, far away. The whole world lies beneath them, and all they can take in is the thin, fresh air. They take another step.

The person keeps their gaze far from the ground until temptation gives in at last. There lies Uruk, a quiet outpost of humankind turned into a sprawling, cluttered, city. From this view, nothing looks cluttered, or sprawling.

One square mile of city, buildings rising high and close together. One square mile of fields, harvesting the land’s fruits. One square mile of mills and factories, the industry and labor. All in all, what was once a humble, far-out outpost is one of the greatest cities for miles.

Perhaps the person smiles, seeing some meaning to this. They’re quite tired from all the walking and climbing and fighting. Yes. . . they might even care to rest.

Back down they climb, tearing past baffled onlookers, guards who can’t think to do anything other than watch. The person has seen the city and its life. Next comes something different.

Next comes the story behind it.

~*~

Too old to be a boy, too young to be a man in other’s eyes. _Young_ was the term they always used. What else could they have said? That he was untested? Ignorant? Surely not. Whatever excuse they sat on, it opened fine opportunities to both challenge his policies and force the mantle of dull habits known as “responsibilities” on his shoulder whenever he wasn’t looking. In the end, it all came to a battle of actions against words.

In Gilgamesh’s experience, actions nearly always passed with flying colors.

For example, a herd of dullards grumbling about their boring problems could most easily be removed with a repeated sounding of the tocsin bells. Fearing an emergency—or worse, a raid—the herd was quick to go trampling away, leaving little more than silence and a huddle of irritated guards. Not that the guards could do anything. They were Gilgamesh’s, employed to follow Gilgamesh’s commands, and no moment of personal terror could knock that out of their soft skulls. If not, then Gilgamesh could introduce his own physical strength to the mix.

In his experience, most people would gladly take the tocsin bells.

This alone left him subtly irritated when, after the usual warning given by the tocsins, a tight-lipped young woman remained in the listening halls anyway.

What a bother.

Gilgamesh cast a side-eyed glance at a guard before continuing to stare, one eyebrow raised, at the scrawny woman who seemed to have no trouble with a beating. _A bother._ If the storm two days ago hadn’t knocked out half the court’s power systems, he could’ve had the person incinerated with an energy ray. The glance he received in turn from the guard, however, was not one of fear.

“Your Majesty,” the guard began, stumbling over his words, “I believe she—”

“Is _intruding_ on my property,” Gilgamesh cut off. He sat back, lazily propping up his crossed legs. How much time could he afford in here before dying of idleness? He at least afforded a flat glare in the woman’s direction—infuriatingly enough, she didn’t so much as flinch. Usually, his sturdy build alone was enough to cow most anyone into submission. “Where's her appointment? What petition does she have? I, as king, reserve my right to dismiss any worthless petitions and solicitors from the throne room.” A glare sharp as steel was enough to send the guard backing away, blanching with alarm.

The woman merely flinched. As she made her way down, her feet shuffled. Good. She was learning her place. Then, she reached into a side pouch from her bag and drew out a little device. “Your Majesty is a supremely wise ruler with just policies,” she said, in a flat tone that hardly conveyed her actual words, “but I’m afraid you may need to wait one moment.” Tapping a button, she held up the mechanism.

Gilgamesh’s hopes of an interesting morning plummeted. In shimmering holographic letters, he made out the eight-pointed star of Ishtar, passed on only through the order of Eanna. Whatever this woman had to say, there would be no denying it.

Certain beings, like an inconvenient storm or a crowd of incessant petitioners, were best ignored more often than not. And certain other beings couldn’t be crossed. Stronger beings existed within the fertile belt, artificial intelligences and monsters, creations said to be closer to gods than anything else. Beings like Ishtar, patron of the city. Enlil, king over the earth and lord of the winds. Shamash, the very sun in the sky.

Gilgamesh played with his time, uncrossing his legs and fidgeting in his seat. “Eanna has wealth enough to send a messenger in a better shape.” And perhaps with better technology. That sort of hologram was third-rate, outdated by at least several years. All this indicated either very rough circumstances, or a splendidly fabricated farce.

The woman shut off her hologram, and her bowed head didn’t mask a tight-lipped grimace. “By standard calculations, I should have reached the capital three weeks ago. We were first ambushed in the wastelands by beasts, then our ship was knocked halfway across the gulf by an uncharted storm.”

Gilgamesh nodded along, expression going sour. “That storm hit the city two days back. You can thank it for your life. And perhaps your king’s lingering patience.”

At the mention of patience, the priestess’s expression tightened further. “I am a servant of Holy Ishtar as surely as you are blessed by divinity,” she said, voice going flat. “That said, the conditions arriving here were. . . substandard. The missions outside the Wilderness Reach have been met with exceeding trouble, to which the order of Eanna elected fit to be brought before Your Majesty.”

As surely as he’d suspected, it was another of those requests. Gilgamesh would have to sit still while the unfortunate petitioner recited her boring list of grievances, and provide an equally tasteless solution—or in some cases, a dismissal. But the order of Eanna was hardly one to be crossed. “You’ve succeeded in accumulating a good deal of time for yourself,” he said. Bored, he propped his chin on the back of his hand and sat back. “Elaborate.”

The priestess opened her mouth, surely to provide a bland excuse for her own lack of success. “Starting several weeks ago, the area’s beasts began going mad, attacking caravans and missions. Organized, powerful movements. There were maulings, then full raids on shelters and homes. Holy Ishtar is certainly in a state of outrage.”

Gilgamesh went rigid in his chair. _This,_ it defied explanation. This drew him in. On the air, he tasted challenge. Intrigue.

Unfortunately, the priestess’s bland voice barely helped the experience. “It’s unlike what even the folks in the Wilderness Reach have seen, Your Majesty. Swift, frequent raids not from savages, but common beasts. It was like nature itself had gone wild. Outside the temple, the gazelles. . .” Her face clouded over, going pale. Something in her eyes cleared, widened, shook. “Not gazelles,” she whispered. “It’s—it’s a _nightmare._ Human, but not human. . . it led them all out and completely overwhelmed every person. Even the warriors. That and its. . . ally.”

“Monsters in the Wilderness Reach?” Gilgamesh sat forward. This, he knew, wasn’t another moment he could slide off with tocsin bells and a few harsh glares. “Aren’t these the savage revolts we’ve been bearing for years?” Animals had nothing to do with them, in easy experience. From what his campaigns had taught him, even the savages were barely worthy of his own attention.

“I. . . No one knows. It’s new. It’s not human. But it’s certainly not a beast.”

_“It,”_ Gilgamesh growled under his breath. This woman’s vagueness was, at the very least, irritating beyond measure. “What else is out there?”  
  
The priestess shuddered. “It commanded the beasts, and they listened, and. . . it was a nightmare. This is why Eanna needed Your Majesty’s advice—it’s far more serious than it looks. If these savages were to set their sights on the capital, who could guess the amount of damage?”  
  
Now, _that_ was a little too far out of line. Gilgamesh sat forward, and despite the intent showing on every line of his body, a bit of annoyance wormed its way to his face. “Why would Uruk have anything to fear from a savage revolt?” he drawled. “They have me.”  
  
“Yes, they do. . . it’s a bit different than savage revolts.” The priestess paled, arms drawing close to herself. Pure terror wrote itself on the lines of her face, but never came to her words. “Suppressing them has been something of a stretch.”  
  
“I was under the impression that was the purpose of your order,” Gilgamesh said, scowling heavily. “Civilize what’s savage. Even if that involves sleeping with it along the way.”  
  
The insult, as he’d expected, should’ve left the priestess fuming with rage. It was an outright accusation against Ishtar’s order, a cataclysmic disrespect of the goddess herself. Come to think of it, two clashing powers of that size had a high chance of leading to one of those civil conflicts Ninsun so often harped upon.  
  
Yet the priestess took this with nothing more than silence. Then, a fuming, tight-lipped smirk. “May I say something, Your Majesty?”  
  
Gilgamesh grunted, partly unable to believe what he was seeing.  
  
“I believe I should be setting off soon. As they say, your divinely-blessed wisdom seems to have solved all things again.”  
  
Ah, so _that_ was what this was about. Gilgamesh rose halfway from his chair with a threatening glare. “Do not dare turn your back on me.”  
  
The priestess whirled around, mouth dropping, eyes wide and innocent. “Oh, I’m hardly doing this to spite you. As I said, Your Majesty is preeminent in strength and strategy. In fact. . . I believe you’ve given me an idea.”  
  
~*~  
  
Humbaba knew of a place from which no beast returned. He knew of the cities reared and wrought by humankind. He knew of the humans within its walls, merciless hunters and arrogant officials. He knew nothing but chaos came when the arrogant and merciless lived without leashes. But of course he knew these things; the divines told him so. In his youth, Shamash had told him enough about what lay beyond the wilderness. When Enlil came before Humbaba to set him in the great forests, Humbaba didn’t hesitate once to go with him. To be a terror to mankind, and a guardian to the wild things.  
  
Humbaba knew it was a life he could take pride in.  
  
Since the fall of greater powers, humans stayed in their cities, fearing war, hunger, and the terrors of the wilderness. Humbaba was one of those terrors, one great wave in a vast sea. The energy rays humans so loved were useless against him, inconsequential compared to his splendors. They ran away; they always did. _His voice is fire, his breath is death—his spirit is untameable._ He liked it that way; without the humans prodding their noses in his land, he could live as he pleased. He could take after the beats in the fields, hole himself up in his great mountain, shrouded by ancient cedar trees.  
  
Upon the mountain, he was never truly alone. Birds warbled songs for him in the trees, and the monkeys beat stones and wood as drums. Humbaba did not sleep; he basked in the sounds of the forest creatures, his creatures. He did not always need to move. If a heifer stirred a mile away, or a desperate hunter raised his bow, Humbaba would be there. He would cast judgement and be the terror Enlil decreed he would be.  
  
It wasn’t always this way. The exception came as a tug on Humbaba’s great paw, whining like a tired dog.  
  
Humbaba gazed downwards, a sigh escaping his mouth. “You are not a dog.”  
  
The whining cut off, but the tug on Humbaba’s paw remained. “Dogs run. Dogs hunt.”  
  
Humbaba let out a low laugh, shaking his great head. “Dogs have tails between their legs and four legs, with monstrous claws on the ends. Neither do they have horns as great as yours.”  
  
The creature paused again, uncertain. He felt the curling horns at the side of his face and the mat of hair over the expanse of his skin, frowning. “A wild bull has horns. A wild bull grazes.”  
  
“You are not a wild bull,” Humbaba said.  
  
The creature stared downwards, round eyes searching his own lanky legs and skin covered with a mat of hair. Then he gazed upwards. “I am a monster, then.”  
  
Humbaba rose from his quiet spot against the mountainside, at his full height towering over the trees, rising over the creature. Far too tall, far too alien, far too different. “No,” said Humbaba. “I am the monster.”  
  
The creature’s eyes bugged with fear and admiration alike. He fell back, tripping over his legs, unwittingly bending a sapling as his own weight crashed to the ground below. Still shabby with his words, it took a moment before he could tie blubbering cries into the tongue of the wilderness. “Then. . . what am I?”  
  
Slowly, like a flower bending to the light, Humbaba lowered himself to the ground. He stood equal with the creature who was neither dog, nor wild bull, nor monster. “Man,” he grunted. The creature didn’t dare move, so Humbaba lay a gentle paw against his face.  
  
The creature’s face fell, clouding with memories. “I can’t be.” He slumped away, hands dropping to the earth. “Men hunt. Men kill. Men die.”  
  
Humbaba found he could say nothing.  
  
“I don’t want to do any of those things,” whispered the creature. “What can I become instead, Humbaba?”  
  
Humbaba looked the creature up and down. Not a monster, not a dog, not a bull. Maybe not a man. “You can be Enkidu,” the monster said slowly.  
  
The creature made no change in his posture, but something cleared in his eyes. He raised his chin by a fraction, meeting Humbaba’s gaze. “What does an Enkidu do?”  
  
“Whatever he wants,” Humbaba said. “You are him. There can only be one Enkidu, from this day until the gods fade and the earth dies.”  
  
“Fine.” Enkidu made to stand, his legs shaking, so matted with hair they seemed to belong to a beast rather than a man. “I’ll be Enkidu.”  
  
Humbaba nodded, and moved back to rest against the earth. For those who lived by their fate, the world kept great things in store. He couldn’t yet see what lay in the future of this thing, not quite human and not quite animal. He didn’t dare try to see.  
  
On shaking legs, Enkidu rose again. “Stretch of wilderness between cedars and city,” he said. “I will run there.”  
  
Humbaba rested his head against the wide trunk of a cedar tree. Monkeys, pigeons, and doves broke into song in the distant bushes, and he remembered why he didn’t need wandering to put his heart at rest. Here, he was home. There was no fact more simple than that.  
  
Enkidu scrambled across the forest, clearing past bushes and trees, then rounding back. He stumbled over a monkey tapping a rhythm on stone, and barely escaped the chorus of screeching that followed. He had to peer up a long way to see Humbaba. “Will you run?” he asked.  
  
Humbaba rolled his head so the little man was out of sight. “No.”  
  
There was a stubborn huff from the ground. “Why?”  
  
“The gazelles in the fields run,” Humbaba said. “The wild dogs run. Enkidu runs. But my place is here.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Humbaba grumbled, shifting downwards to face him. “Enlil set me here. I guard the cedars. I am what humankind calls a king.”  
  
“What is a king?” asked Enkidu.  
  
Humbaba’s monstrous face curled, lips forming a smile. “Nothing of your concern.”  
  
Bored, Enkidu began frolicking in the grass, running back and forth. Wind ripped through his hair, and this time he didn’t turn around. The sight of him grew smaller and smaller through the thin trees, but of course Humbaba saw. Humbaba saw _all_.  
  
“Stop.”  
  
Deep in a thicket of cedars, Enkidu stopped. He began running the other way, his speed incredible—barely, just barely, nearing Humbaba’s own speed. In minutes, he was back in the grove, standing before Humbaba, his brow furrowed. This one was young, impatient.  
  
Whenever a creature died in his forest, Humbaba felt it. A pang in the deepest parts of his chest, entire lives flashing through his mind in the blink of an eye. “Where do you run?” he asked the creature, knowing fully well there was a chance he would never see Enkidu while away his life in his woods. He would never feel the death of such a great creature.  
  
A chilling, enigmatic thought.  
  
The creature, neither fully man nor beast, shrugged his shoulders and grunted. “Far. Gazelles run through distant places. Pits must be filled. Traps must be broken.” His face grew pale, eyes urgent, and then Humbaba realized.  
  
His home was in the forest of cedar, but his duty extended to all of the wilderness. Every creature could be drawn back to him, watchman of the cedar mountain. Humbaba saw, but he did not see further than the borders of his own lands. Enkidu did.  
  
“Then you must go,” Humbaba said, swallowing a pang of regret. “Leave. I can bless your journey, but there is nowhere I can leave to.”  
  
Infuriatingly, Enkidu stood in place. “Why?”  
  
“Because it is my place to stay here,” Humbaba said. “If your place is to run in the wilderness, then run. I cannot stop you.”  
  
Enkidu still gazed up, torment in his clouded eyes. “No one stays,” he said softly, desperately. “No one speaks. They. . . they always leave me. . .”  
  
What had this creature seen in all his years? He seemed only able to run, but so many other creatures ran. Humbaba could not afford to run. “Then it would be fitting,” said the monster. “Today, you can be the one to run away.”  
  
Enkidu considered, pacing back and forth, then sinking to the ground. His head hung in his hands, a foreign movement that brought a chill down Humbaba’s spine. So familiar and different. So stuck in-between worlds. “I can’t do it,” he hissed. “I _can’t._ I. . . I can’t stay, but I can’t leave.”  
  
Humbaba hesitated. He cast a wide glance at the cedar trees, filled with monkeys and birds, innocent creatures. They scrambled about without heed to motion or thought, rustling branches with free, thoughtless joy. Their home had never been threatened. Was it possible to extend his reach even further? To go beyond this circle of cedars?  
  
When Humbaba rose to his feet, pang after pang shot through his chest, bidding him to stop. These didn’t come from dying beasts, but somewhere within him, somewhere that still listened to the old gods. Enlil would not care if his own home were expanded and guarded. If he questioned, he could always know this fight was for the better.  
  
“You can do neither,” Humbaba said. “I may help you.”  
  
Trembling, Enkidu gazed up at the giant. “Help me?”  
  
“Traps must be broken. Pits must be filled.” Humbaba let out a long, rumbling sigh. As he approached Enkidu, trees shook and monkeys scurried out of the way. “My place is to be a terror to mankind, yet mankind terrorizes the beasts outside my realm. You are proof of this thing.”  
  
“Will you run?”  
  
“I can. Therefore, I must.” Humbaba took one giant step downhill, nodding at the smaller creature at his side. “I will show you how to treat the beasts outside, and you will no longer need to fear.”  
  
Enkidu tensed, eyes lighting up, seeming almost in disbelief. “You will run with me.”  
  
“For today, yes.” Towards the lands ahead Humbaba cast his gaze, where cedar trees broke up into bare, useless lands. “Perhaps we may learn what you are to be, creation of Enki.”  
  
“I am not a dog, a monster, or a bull. I am Enkidu. An Enkidu does whatever he wants.” Enkidu stepped onwards, the matted hair along his legs dragging in the bushes. Heeding none of it, he began to run.  
  
He kept running for a long time, running straight east towards whatever destiny awaited him.  
  
_Ignorance or courage?_ Humbaba wondered, but found no answer within himself. He merely followed, praying for some sort of clarity in the scenario. In little time the cedar forest was far behind them, although the trip for Enkidu still took days. Humbaba didn’t worry; Enkidu had a habit of returning, and there was no time to waste in fruitless matters.  
  
The beasts adored and greeted Humbaba, although he was a stranger. Deep inside they knew what he was, and that was enough. They let Humbaba speak, guard, and train them. Traps were shattered by Enkidu while Humbaba’s sharp eyes alerted every danger. For weeks, humans were fended off. Eventually their camps were raided, disbanded, defeated. There was still work to be done.  
  
Enkidu spent days running with the herds, dancing in the winds, fighting back lions and human hunters. Humbaba began to rely on this, scheduling important raids when he knew the herds would return, letting his success rest on Enkidu’s presence. Even if he vanished for days, he returned as surely as the herds did, bringing back the scent of harsh winds and meadow grass, ready for another fight.  
  
Until one day, when he didn’t. Even when the gazelles returned from their run, Enkidu was missing. Days slipped by, and Humbaba kept anxious watch. Those days became weeks.  
  
In none of those weeks did Enkidu return to them.  
  
~*~  
  
The highest city from the wilderness to the sea, Uruk kept a golden court of brimming wealth, vibrant people and about the most extravagant entertainments known to mankind. Jesters cracked away entire audiences, beasts grappled with tooth and nail while onlookers laughed behind rich fans. For a few steady weeks, Gilgamesh had ignored it. Nearly. He wasn’t spending those missing hours passing laws, however.  
  
“Your Majesty,” said one of his servants, his face buried in a tablet laden with data, “our scanners haven’t picked up any significant news from this sector. Have you been checking the proper places?”  
  
“Are you questioning my commands?” Gilgamesh shot back, his mood not at all helped by his own blandly insolent servant. “Check harder. Days ago, that part of the wilderness reach was flooded with reports.”  
  
The servant relented, not without a heavy sigh. After a minute of tapping and swiping away, he glanced back at the king. “As of the past forty-eight hours, the northwest sector of the wilderness reach has been clear of major reports. Not one interception. Not one sighting of a beast. There’s even a notation that the locals seem to have been readjusting to a normal life.”  
  
Slouched in his chair, Gilgamesh grunted. Sometimes that was the most proper thing to do, the near-silence most certainly displaying the most kingly etiquette there could be.  
  
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” the servant began, sounding much more exasperated than his words implied, “but exactly why is this frustrating you? You understand what these negative statistics mean for developments in that sector.”  
  
“Of course I understand,” Gilgamesh said, glowering at the man. “I am no young boy.” Whether or not these irritating advisors believed it, he was a man; and not just a man, but a king.  
  
“I am aware of that,” the servant said, although the dry leer to his voice implied he certainly wasn’t aware of that. “At no point in this conversation did I bring up your age as an important factor in civilizing the Wilderness Reach.”  
  
Gilgamesh grumbled under his breath, sitting forward to regain some space, some sort of initiative. Momentarily, he contemplated if his current reputation would permit him to eject a servant from the city. “Then get on with it!”  
  
The servant stopped in his tracks, before proceeding to study Gilgamesh carefully. “Perhaps I’m asking the wrong question, Sire. Why is good news for your entire campaign so troubling?”  
  
Another useless question, a perfect addition to his perfectly useless day. Gilgamesh sat forward, glaring at no one in particular and considering his options. Spilling his worries was a petty thing, but most developments that day had been progressing in that manner. It wouldn't be unfair for _him_ to be an exception.  
  
“To start,” Gilgamesh said flatly, “nothing about this development makes any sense at all. The northwest sector has been riddled the most attacks, the most reports. Days ago, savages were taking up arms to the point I had to double-program half my operations in that area, down to the simplest supply drones. Because apparently the _animals_ would have decoded my complex tactics well enough to at least stall any business in the sector for days.” He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his working throne, trying and failing to swallow his impatience. “The barbarians had to be taking up arms against us, or they're cowards using minions to stay anonymous. This was organized by human hands.”  
  
The term _barbarian_ meant someone outside of Uruk’s influence entirely, either the uneducated tribes in the wilderness or soldiers from other great cities. It was a broad term that mostly applied to the former, as Gilgamesh had long since gone to extreme means to establish Uruk’s superiority. It was not for nothing that he was known as two-thirds divine.  
  
The servant nodded in what he certainly must’ve thought was a respectful manner. That was what Gilgamesh hoped, or else he’d have full rights to wipe the servant’s self-satisfied look straight to the afterlife.  
  
“No one has analyzed the attacks more thoroughly than Your Majesty,” the servant said in a flat tone that wouldn’t have convinced a starry-eyed child. “But you need to take into account the records of barbarians in the Wilderness Reach—there simply _are_ none.”  
  
“That would be very convenient,” Gilgamesh growled.  
  
The servant sighed. “We are in a state of uncertainty. There is no conceivable pattern to these events, and no obvious culprit behind them. I believe jumping to conclusions at this point would be brash.”  
  
“And the same can be said for believing that sector is in the clear entirely?”  
  
“Perhaps.”  
  
“You’ll be tightening operations in that sector anyway. I don’t want them to think they can fool us with a few days of silence.” Not that it had been days so much as _weeks_ of little to no attacks in the wilderness reach. It was as if whoever had organized this revolt had gone silent, as surely as a spark snuffed before it could catch fire.  
  
“Of course, Your Majesty.”  
  
Apparently that had resolved it. Once busy, the servant’s excuse to leave the room was as solid as the Senate’s skulls were thick. Thus, Gilgamesh was left alone.  
  
It wasn’t that the work stressed him. No, it was the opposite—it was a challenge, a mystery, and so vastly different from his life of effortless blessings. With the standard genetic enhancements befitting a ruler, and additional divine blessings, there was easy groundwork for him to master every test, physical and mental. No one mastered him—until someone actually did.  
  
Now, whoever it was had vanished like a mayfly on the river, and he couldn’t stand it.  
  
For no reason he could name, Gilgamesh found himself rifling through his pockets. He settled back, drawing out a small communications tablet. He rarely used it. What was the trouble of writing when you had scribes and clerks, anyway? The time that took could be used for other, pleasing pursuits. And just what could he do, now that he’d closed half his court? Stare at the wall? Drink the day away? Unusually, the latter presented itself as somewhat distasteful. With no explanation other than the fact he could think of nothing else, he turned to his communications tablet.  
  
It took a few seconds for the proper access codes to be filled, the machines scanning and rescanning to verify his fingerprints and passwords. On top of that, months of disuse had left the device sluggish, straining at every movement. Gilgamesh cursed under his breath, as if that would help his endeavor.  
  
To his surprise, it was then that the tablet’s contact page loaded, gears whining like satisfied dogs. Gilgamesh spent little time looking for his address. In moments, his page loaded in the form of a blank screen, a blinking cursor at one end indicating it was ready for words.  
  
He began to draft a message, tapping at the screen, filling it with thoughts. The words came so reflexively he barely noticed what he was typing, as if he’d relayed them from memory, spoken them from his heart. Even if the latter was a more childish interpretation.  
  
_I dreamed of him last night. The commander. Glowing like a star, like a god, only to fall at my feet. So beautiful and brilliant and alive. Then he was an axe, the kind barbarians use to fell trees for lack of proper tools. I drew closer, Mother, and then—_  
  
With a hissed intake of breath, Gilgamesh cut off. As vaguely as he wrote, each word brought back a torrent of memories which were _very_ much the opposite. A star, an axe, and then a man. His gaze clouded, a vessel filled only with dreams. Dreams where he met his match, his equal. Impossible dreams.  
  
With a few furious swipes of his hand, Gilgamesh deleted every word of the message.  
  
By the end of the day, he’d ventured back to the marriage house to entertain his rights. By the end of the four days, he’d sunk fully into meaningless pleasure. By the end of one week, he was sure he’d pieced his life back to normalcy.  
  
By the end of two weeks, the dreams had yet to leave him alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to... whatever this fic is going to be. Foolish as it may be to start another project in the middle of life, I'm going to be working on this for a while. Thanks for reading!


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's when he's learned human life, even considered settling down, that he finally hears the extent of Uruk's injustice.

Each time the gazelles left him, Enkidu wasn’t sure to feel enraged or lonely. None of them stopped in their tracks. None of them even looked back, or gave one hint they cared enough to recognize their old commander. When he struck them down with arrows, none of their gasping screams resonated in his head. They died, meaninglessly, beneath Enkidu. Or they ran, backs to the breeze, shivering with terror.

He was sure there had been a time when he’d understood their words. The shepherds weren’t. Sweating beneath the merciless sun, busy scraping some semblance of a life herding their beasts, they didn’t care to consider the idea. There wasn’t enough time, food, or money for something so frivolous.

Sometimes he was unsure if there was meaning to their struggles to begin with. What would another day of toil do to change their life and their childrens’ lives? What was the meaning of  _ his _ life if there was no one to share it with? It was pathetic, really. Everyone left, or when they stayed, took everything from his life. Not even the great watchman from the cedars, who’d sworn to fight by his side, cared enough to see why he didn’t return. Maybe he already saw. In the cedars, Humbaba saw every rustle, heard every breath. In the distant lands, Humbaba had been so careful in concealing whether his skills had dulled. Maybe they were sharper than ever.

Perhaps it all tied into a certain sense, unspoken but heavy on the air, resonating in every exhausted movement of the shepherds:  _ there is nothing in your life you can change. You are powerless, and you always have been. You always will be. _

At night, Enkidu stood guard against the lions he’d once danced and played with. Sometimes he could see their eyes peering through bushes, close but never close enough. They saw him, but it was as if he was just another human.

When Enkidu buried his axe into their necks, he sometimes thought he saw a flicker of recognition. It wasn’t enough. Their limbs were stiff, the fight torn from them, and their eyes were shrouded with clear, cold fear. No, it was never enough.

He attempted a shepherd’s life, guarding the camp, hunting the animals he’d once protected. The shepherds gave him food in return, bread and drink. He shared a tent with the brilliant, beautiful woman who’d torn him from his old life, whose skin smelled of perfume and pleasures. She told him she was from some distant camp, larger than any that he’d ever seen, rich with technologies the shepherds had never dreamed of. Electricity and energy rays and security. Great metal walls like mountains looming over the land, cutting off city from barren country.

Enkidu had a feeling it was supposed to sound beautiful beyond belief. Instead, it made him bitter beyond mercy. Who could live in such splendor and so wholeheartedly ignore the  _ filth _ just outside their walls? In the stretch of wilderness between cedar forest and city, people worked with sticks and stones. Besides, he wasn’t sure he’d heard a single fine thing about that distant land.

When the shepherds spoke of their king, they would shake their heads and spit in the dust in agreement—their king should be as they were to their sheep, just and diligent. This king in his distant city stole brides from husbands, worked his people to exhaustion. But when they spoke of this king, they also looked to Enkidu, their dark eyes wary, almost expectant. What could he say to them?

Each time this happened, Enkidu shook his head and forced out the explanation. “The thing is, I’m not sure if that’s the person I’m looking for.”

The shepherds shrugged their shoulders, no more capable of answering Enkidu’s question than they were of understanding it. One of them had earned enough coin in the last summer to buy a battered radio, tuned to rattle out news from lands they’d never had the fortune to see in their life. They killed their time like that, listening to some musician from the city sing about love, or some equally distant notion. Most of the songs Enkidu heard were tied into love—some sort of pining, a heartsickness. He supposed, with every dream-racked night and day alone in the woods, he could partly understand.

One of the shepherds, Sadu, laughed heartily after the last song. “A classic, that one,” he said. Rising to his feet as if this were some scripted action in a play, he made his way towards Enkidu. “Remember when he first came here? Drank seven pitchers of beer, and then sang for us?”

Enkidu feigned insensitivity, scowling and hoping his sun-burnt skin covered the heat rising anxiously to his cheeks.

Sadu merely laughed, giving Enkidu a friendly slap on the shoulder. “I think he was better than whoever rattled away this, if we’re gonna be honest with ourselves.”

One of his friends hooted his agreement, cradling his own flask of beer. Their noise drifted on into idle chatter, drowning out the sounds of the radio. Enkidu wondered if someone had flipped one of the bright buttons on the device’s sides to change the channel, because when he tuned back in, he didn’t recognize the song playing. In fact, he became more and more sure this wasn’t a song at all rather than an ordinary voice, uninterested in rhythm or melody. He heard no flashy tune, no catchy lyrics. The voice here was grave, hollow, and hopeless. Yet the spacing of the words was flat and high, as if the speaker knew this, and was trying to force some illusion of passion.

“. . . as it is written, it is the will of Anu that this is so. This is within his right. Although it is a shame, truly, that the family is so stubborn.” The speaker paused. There was a muffled noise partly marred by the radio’s static and the shepherds’ chatter, but to Enkidu’s ears it sounded like a cough. A cue for someone else to act.

“This is. . . the king’s right. . .” The new voice came out slower, with nothing to mask his own emptiness. Just grey, gloom, and nothing else.

“A blessing bestowed on both the bride and groom,” picked up the first voice. “The hostility of the family is a curious, terrible new thing. Something most easily stamped out.” A new numbness sat on his tone, heightening as Enkidu’s interest piqued. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

There was a mumbled answer, half-eaten by a rapid burst of static. Something growled, like a curse. Even without words to make out, Enkidu caught the potent emotion rising from the man—hopeless, helpless outrage. The anger of a man who could do nothing to defend his crumbling life.

“Well, I suppose that is a possible viewpoint,” the first speaker said, and this time there was a nonchalant laugh to his tone. “Does it matter in the end, our glorious king taking what he desires? You are not the bride-to-be, so what does it matter if your bed is taken for one night? Yes. . . it’s simply the way of the world.”

“No,” growled the second man, “it’s utterly dishon—”

Before his sentence could be finished, ear-piercing waves of static poured from the radio, swallowing any possible sound that could’ve left the man’s mouth. The jarring sound shocked the other men to their feet, silencing their speech and leaving them to cover their ears. Sadu let out a curse as loud as the static, leaping to fix the machine's volume.

Enkidu, on the other hand, had gone utterly still. He whispered words beneath his breath, trying to clear his head, trying to believe he’d heard something else.  _ What does it matter if your bed is taken for one night? _ Without a doubt, he suddenly knew what the second speaker had been about to say.

It wasn’t long before the shepherds turned to Enkidu, frowning at his rigid stature. Sadu prodded a finger at Enkidu’s skull, but the wild man didn’t move.

“Hey, did the galla-demons take this one?” Sadu chuckled, as if Enkidu wouldn’t hear.

Enkidu broke free of their group, causing half the shepherds to start backwards. They knew what he was, and there would always be a part of them that feared him for it—he was different. He strode, stormed, across the little glade and to the radio. The news had rattled on with the first speaker discussing something completely mundane. Something about a scam artist arrested for selling cheap copper, and the weather forecast. He didn’t give a damn about the weather.

“What did they just say?” Enkidu asked, not necessarily to any of the shepherds in their circles. “What sort of. . . thing is happening?”

When the shepherds began murmuring among themselves, Enkidu’s heart sank. He whirled around, stamping a foot in the dirt, kicking up dust.  _ “What did they say?” _

Sadu went white as a sheet, and the others shifted uncomfortably in the dirt. One of them spoke, an older, quiet man named Elzur. “You haven’t heard of the weddings in the city, have you?” the old man said, tense and quiet.

“Tell me,” Enkidu said, swallowing down the urge to bring down wrath as his hands clenched. What good would that do anyway? “What’s going to happen down there?”

“Well. . . It’s the law, the will of Anu, and the birthright of the king. . . When a man and woman are wed, the veil is parted for the one who picks first—for the strongest and the best, you see, and not the groom. In this case, on the wedding night in Uruk. . .” Elzur shifted his shoes, unable to meet Enkidu’s gaze. “King Gilgamesh will share a bed with the bride-to-be, as the law ordains. First the king, then the husband. It’s simply the way of the world, that is.”

At the man’s words, every trace of color drained from Enkidu’s face. He was pale, livid, burning. The injustice of it, the madness that he’d sensed at the corners of his life here was far more real than he’d ever thought. So utterly  _ wrong. _

He looked aside, and saw that the shepherds had quailed in fear. What did they think he would do, blame them? No. Justice fell only on those who deserved it. Today, Enkidu acted for justice. There had to be some justice in the world.

Enkidu crossed to the center of the clearing they used as a camp, face pale, mind churning with white-hot rage. “Take me to Uruk,” he said, words as abrupt as his anger, but surely as just. “Take me there and I’ll stop this. I—I’ll beat him to the ground. Show him who’s stronger. I won’t stand to sit here and  _ take  _ this.”

The shepherds were stock-still, eyes avoiding Enkidu. Sadu’s hands sank into his pockets. Elzur sighed hoarsely. That seemed all they could do, sigh and pretend they could make something out of their lives. Useless. Didn’t they see, there was nothing to their lives? Never had been.

Then someone spoke. “I have some words for you.”

Enkidu’s breath hitched, and as quickly as his anger took him, he’d turned from the terrified shepherds. He took a few steps back, but his expression didn’t soften.

One look at her face and you would know she didn’t belong here. Not in the dirty tents, sleeping beside sheep and pests. Her dark hair had been brushed until it was sleek as glass, framing a sharp, pretty face. She wore a dress from the city, the colorful fabric anointed with the blazing star of Ishtar. And there was something else—an intelligence to her eyes that surpassed her pleasing looks and obvious wealth. This was someone educated.

No one needed to tell that to Enkidu, of all people. There was some awkwardness in his movements as he shifted back to face her. “I asked you before, didn’t I?” he mused, unable to suppress a dark twist of his lips from the sheer irony.

The priestess stayed put at the edge of the circle, arms crossed. Her wrists twinkled with jewellery, elaborate bracelets adorned with blue beads. She’d told him once they were lapis lazuli, favored by gods. “And what did I tell you?” she said in that sweet, humming tone.

Enkidu bit his lip, sure that the only thing stopping him from flushing red was his own coursing anger. She’d been kind all along, really. So kind for someone who drove him from the animals, from his friends. Not that half of it hadn’t been his own fault. He looked back from the shepherds, who’d begun to close in once they were confident he wouldn’t slaughter them. Why did they ever fear him when they were the ones who fed him?

“You warned me,” he said, jaw clenched. “That doesn’t matter from here on. Now, I’m ready.”

Shamhat slipped up to his side, bringing the heavy scent of perfume and flowers. He loved that smell, but he hardly registered it through his tumbling thoughts. “Watch what you say in your confidence,” she told him. “Your type never really thinks about the danger, do they?”

Enkidu shook his head, lacking the ease to laugh and rebuke her words. He focused on the radio report. The distant city with its high walls, higher than all the trees. The injustice inside those walls. “I need a guide. Which way is this place—north, south?” He heard sighing, from both Shamhat and the eavesdropping shepherds.

“You should never go on a foreign road without someone to walk in front—to protect their companion.” Shamhat stopped in front of him, face still and grave. “I will guide you. You’ll follow my lead to the city.”

Enkidu remembered times when all the priestess’s words had been whispers, meaningless in his ears due to his ignorance. He was sure something had blessed him with the skill to decipher the words, even if it came at the price of the animals’ tongues. He couldn’t do much more than nod, cross his arms, and contemplate his rebellion as he simmered in rage.

~*~

As monkeys sang in the trees, Humbaba contemplated the irritable creatures in the distant city. They were not beautiful, as the sun was. They were not swift, as the gazelles were. They were not strong, as. . . everything else. Humbaba himself. The gods above. And—wherever he was, if he still lived—the strange, swift being called Enkidu. Humbaba felt a long, shuddering sigh at the thought of him. How did it serve him, now that he’d gotten what he wanted? Now that he’d run off into lands he didn’t know, lands he could’ve been just fine abandoning?

Just as he had atop the cedar mountain, Humbaba _saw_. He saw the unhinged lands and its skittish, wild beings. The beasts who loved him, feared him, trusted him. Humbaba loved and trusted them, but he did not fear them. He had feared Enkidu, feared him for his recklessness, and the vast weight of his destiny. He had been. . . like a flame seething through a bush—bright, brilliant, and all too short. When the flame ran too far, devouring all in sight, nothing remained.

Of course nothing remained. With Enkidu, fast as the wind, destined for too much, what else could he do but run himself to doom?

It had stressed him earlier on, the days when he did not return. The empty days, when something unnameable was missing. Humbaba decided it was Enkidu’s inner restlessness, driving him blindly to face whatever destiny the gods wrote for him. Humbaba could’ve decided it was a whole host of things. Or nothing.

One more day passed with nothing. One more day, and the beasts sat quiet in the forest. The sun peered in silence over the world, as if nothing had happened. In the woods, birds hummed. Somewhere atop a cedar mountain, Humbaba’s home was waiting.

A trail of animals followed him back, frail doves and swift goats, clever monkeys. Humbaba welcomed them as his subjects, his guests. There was little else to do. He at least waited one day, one more day until the winds grew cold, and Enlil’s displeasure was too great to test.

His fight ended, Humbaba returned to the cedar mountain. To where the birds sang and the monkeys were his heralds. Where cedars taller than even the tallest city were bold enough to graze the sky. If Humbaba stretched, he could brush a finger against the treetops.

So there was little more story to that, then. Humbaba set out with one companion and returned with none. Perhaps he could’ve looked out and found him, but he relented. . . somehow. There wouldn’t be any comfort finding what happened to Enkidu. He kept himself ignorant of one thing alone, knowing a mystery was better than anything he could find if he searched. A missing friend was more than a corpse.

The trees sang as he returned. Soon the monkeys huddled around to fit a crown of flowers over his head, and the birds were back in their places to sing. Enlil looked down from afar, his approval so faint Humbaba felt little more than a whisper, a cool tone in the wind. That was enough.

It was very strange, how they all thought the world could return to one way. Perhaps they were right.


	3. Three

The screening started smoothly, the machine humming as person after person huddled through. A person would pass in, the light would go green, and they were deemed as “non-hostile,” free to continue into Uruk’s inner city. Enkidu followed behind a woman with hands stuffed into pockets. She got the green light as the scan, and before Enkidu knew it he was being prodded along through the scanner.

He had to be a head taller than the other commoners, and judging by a not very subtle glare from a nearby guard, the others knew it. Enkidu offered him a wink before passing through the screener. The way ahead was barred by a thin plastic rod, hung at around the same height as his waist. It was accompanied by a strip of flashing white text, a scrambled set of letters Enkidu thought he recognized.

The screener stayed silent for a moment, and Enkidu blinked in confusion. Then one of the guards prodded his elbow.

“Hold your arms above your head, like the sign tells you. You’re holding up traffic.”

With a jolt, Enkidu realized what the flashing text must’ve stood for. He complied, straightening the lumpy cap covering his head. Then, the screener began its job with a whir.

For a split second, the light flashed and flickered. The humming became a shrill alarm, sounding on and off like a child’s cry. Enkidu stood perfectly still, his hands held over his head. One of the guards moved to stand in front of the screener’s exit, beckoning.

“Sir, you’ll need to follow us here for a—”

Then he was cut off as another of the guards moved up, murmuring something in the other’s ear. Both their faces went pale as bone.

Enkidu bit his lip. Perhaps the weapons he’d stuffed in his tunic hadn’t been a smart idea. Not that Shamhat hadn’t warned him about  _ this _ part of the trip. He made his way forward, making a show of shuffling his feet, acting unsure.

The first guard stepped past the plastic barrier and blocked his path. His face was stony.

“Don’t worry about that,” Enkidu said, attempting a wry smile. “I’ve got a writ of passage—from the order of Ishtar. See?” He reached for his pockets.

The voice of a guard pierced in before he could finish, stiff with alarm. “The scanner’s picked up  _ six  _ weapons—not just metal—”

A curse left Enkidu’s lips. One hand buried in his left pocket, he made eye contact with a guard.

Too slow, the guard’s hand inched to the gun at his side. Just a warning, but he couldn’t be sure. Enkidu was there in an instant, striking the weapon from his hands in a rush. Forgetting every last warning Shamhat had given him, he sprinted past the guard—straight for the gates. An absolutely  _ stupid  _ move, but the adrenaline in his veins fed a mad, reckless energy that urged him to run faster. Fast as the gazelles in the fields, the hawks above him. He could outrun all the animals that had ever fled from him, if only he ran hard enough.  _ If only. _

Blinding force struck the side of his head. He went sprawling on the ground, clutching his head and hissing, rage boiling through his blood. A guard was on top of him in a second, wrestling his arms behind his back. They’d thought— _ no, _ they’d thought he going to—

Enkidu wrestled the guard off him, the urgency so bad he nearly forgot to hold back. He flipped over with a grunt, curses flying from his lips. The guards were back on him, enough for Enkidu to throw off and overpower. Enough that he knew if he really tried, he could wrestle every one of them to the ground. They would’ve been weak as twigs.

Knowing this, he stood utterly still, clenched fists hovering in the air. These weren’t the ones he was after. He had to close this somehow, to get them away without any harm.

A mass of weight hit him from behind. Someone was wrestling him down, searching the folds of his clothes. Head pressed to the ground, he could only dimly spot his hat lying forgotten on the ground, the lumpy fabric trampled by frantic onlookers. His  _ hat. _

His blood ran ice-cold as he realized. Slack beneath the weight of two guards, he struggled to reach a hand to his head. No use—it was snatched away and pinned behind his back. He. . . hadn’t thought of how things would go from here. He had to fight. He couldn’t fight. He was pinned on the ground by people he didn’t dare risk hurting, and now everything they needed to put him down was in sight.

Almost amusedly, his mind turned to Shamhat. As sweet and brilliant as she’d been—gods bless her with someone better than him—there was one thing of the wild she could never change about him.

They’d noticed. People were yelping, crowding, pinning him and lifting his head. “Gods, is that—”

A guard dropped his head entirely, jarring him. “The  _ hell?” _

“Like he’s some sort of hybrid, but—”

Enkidu gritted his teeth through the pain, his cheek grinding against the floor. He was sure his nose was bleeding.

“Not human—”

Then he was pulled up, a hand yanking him by the collar. He knew by now to go slack, letting his head loll. He couldn’t afford really hurting anyone.

“My gods,” the guard said, echoing the words of everyone close enough to see. “He’s—not human.”

He traced a thumb over the bony protrusions jutting from Enkidu’s forehead, curling at the bases. As the guard touched it, racing to balance what he saw and what his logical mind urged, he let out a choking noise. His hands clenched around Enkidu’s horns, long and curved like a ram’s. He didn’t say a word—his mouth moved, but shock paralyzed his voice, his thoughts.

Enkidu blinked up into the barrel of a gun. He could think of nothing more than to stare ahead, calm and still.

A frowning guard dug a firearm from behind his belt, tossing it aside. Arms shaking, he kept Enkidu’s arms behind his back. They’d probably bind him up soon enough, then throw him somewhere he’d be forgotten.

Playing the dumb savage, Enkidu muttered, “The writ’s in my left pocket. . .”

Someone dug through his tunic, despite the plethora of glares his statement earned. The guard came back with a metal token, engraved with Ishtar’s brilliant star. The hologram was embedded inside, revealed only when one pressed the star-shaped button in the center.

“Sign seems legitimate,” he muttered, opening the hologram. Up came a hologram adorned with words in pale blue—which was, supposedly, an infallible ticket to the palace.

Enkidu held his breath as the man read. At the very least this would tack off a few years in prison, if they were able to restrain him fast enough. Judging by their power, he doubted this.

The guard broke off, scoffing beneath his breath. “Words directly from a harimtu. Even has a signature and the proper facial checks to specify this man. We’ll need to bring this up to someone else. . .”

“Could’ve forged it,” another suggested.

“Hard job that’d be. I bet he hasn’t set his hands on modern equipment a single time before this day. A priestess got it for him.”

Well, that was a bit unfair. Enkidu was sure he’d messed with the radio a few times before setting foot in Uruk. He inched his head up, stealing a glance at the sky. Nearly sunset. His time was running out.

“It should mention her identity,” Enkidu said under his breath. “Shamhat, harimtu to Goddess Ishtar. She gave me leave to pass through the gates, faulty security checks excused.”

There were a few grumbles, which he supposed were reasonable after they’d had to wrestle him to the ground. Finally someone hoisted Enkidu up, cuffing his hands together. “Pass or not, you’ve been deemed a terror threat. It’ll be easier for you so long as you cooperate.”

Enkidu nodded. “And what’ll that mean for you?” he asked. An innocent question, only on the surface. A guard could very easily lose his job for a slip-up as bad as apprehending a high-profile figure. And with the order of Ishtar involved, things would only get worse.

The guard stopped short. “It means you’ll be waiting here while I fetch someone of. . . a rank high enough to make sense of this.”

Enkidu’s mouth caught in a sly, upward turn. He was ushered into a chair behind the scanner, arms locked behind his back and a guard at his heels. They were all gawking, eyes on his horns and his long hair and everything else that was  _ different. _ He supposed they had some point. But they were only half wrong when they whispered he wasn’t human. Or one-third, if his old companion was true after all this time. He couldn’t repress a sigh, thinking about the monster in the woods he’d once called friend.

~*~

Gilgamesh couldn’t understand people set on dampening festivities. It seemed they were leering over him with every event, murmuring half-formed suggestions—further ways to waste his time. He’d already decided how he would waste his time, so why didn’t they see their efforts were useless?

Of course, there was one more thing he didn’t understand. It was tied into the first, yet it wasn’t. It was far different, far bigger. Therefore, even more baffling and infuriating.

“Why in Anu’s name have you consulted  _ me  _ over this?”

The priestess bit the edge of her lip, but that seemed the only footing she lost. She kept perfectly straight, her jaw set with a purpose. “His writ gives him full clearance to pass to the inner city. Furthermore, he’s expressed the desire to petition you.”

With a somewhat lazy sigh, Gilgamesh set his cup of beer on a servant’s tray. He at least deigned to meet the priestess’s gaze. _ Ishtar’s order again. _ “The king decides when and when not to accept petitioners. In case we’ve reached a misunderstanding, I must ask you—are  _ you _ king of Uruk?”

“That is why I’ve come to you,” the priestess replied, exasperated. “Give your final word on the matter. Show us you are the balance between earth and heaven.”

Those words got to him. Of course they did. What else could he do, say he  _ wasn’t  _ all those things? Pondering on how Uruk’s power system was so shot that a prisoner’s sentence ended up reaching the king was a given, though. Gilgamesh’s brows knit together, not the most regal expression. It would be enough to communicate. “And does this writ have any trace of. . . legitimacy?”

“There is nothing we could disprove, Your Majesty. Even specified the man by name.”

Before he could stop himself, the question passed his lips. “And what is it? The man’s name?”

The priestess pulled out a palm-sized tablet to check herself, although the fact she’d forgotten it astounded Gilgamesh. He couldn’t quite trace the thought, but no one should forget a name like that.

In a moment, however, she glanced back up. “I’ll admit it’s a rather useless knowledge. The. . . man’s name is Enkidu.”

Enkidu. With the way it lingered in Gilgamesh’s head, striking all sorts of chords, he decided he’d somehow heard it before. No doubt in passing, brief enough to forget. But, it was something to entertain. If this man’s name had reached his mind, even before, just who  _ was  _ he?

He must’ve dazed out. The priestess was still talking, chattering on in that clipped tone of hers. “Again, we’re afraid he isn’t. . .  _ stable _ . Or even civilised. Not from anywhere near Uruk, probably some sector in the Wilderness. His body has to have received some sort of genetic enhancements, the type that shouldn't even be  _ considered _ here. His—they say, his horns. . .”

“I’ll see him.” The words passed his mouth before he had time to think, even listen. Oddly, Gilgamesh didn’t regret it.

“Your Majesty?”

“I have one hour,” Gilgamesh said, a ruthless gleam passing his eyes, “until my services are due at the marriage house. I’ll use that to see what this. . . wild man has to offer.”

The priestess stood still for a second, blinking. As if she hadn’t expected this. Why wouldn’t she? It was already set to be a night of excitement, festivity. Surely a challenge wouldn’t do so much harm.

This, Gilgamesh decided, was why priestesses should never attend parties. He folded his arms, if only to assert that his decision was final. He’d need to drift away soon if he wanted to investigate this petitioner.

“Well,” the priestess said, visibly stiffening. “I shall send the order, Your Majesty. Whatever terror threat this wild man posed is. . . waived. For the moment.”

Gilgamesh nodded his agreement. “You know where to send petitioners of the king.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” In a flash of bright dress, the priestess whirled away. Annoying woman. Weren’t the priestesses he’d seen usually encountered usually more agreeable than this? Well. . . he supposed he should’ve considered what part of their jobs they were doing first.

Gilgamesh didn’t hesitate to pick up another cup of beer before departing to an inner hall—not his throne room, because this was a smaller matter and he couldn’t bother to take that long of a walk. Whatever threat this wild man posed wouldn't require his own moderation, anyway.

~*~

One hour. In one hour, it’d be too late. In one hour, he’d either be utterly flattened or he’d have brought some order to Uruk.  _ Order,  _ he told himself, even as the halls rushed past him. He drew nearer and nearer to the palace.  _ There must be order. _

A different set of guards marched him up to the appointed chamber, casting him dark looks. Enkidu hadn’t bothered to ask for his cap after its initial loss. It was probably still on the ground next to the screener, being trampled over by passerby. No large loss. He’d be worrying about different things sooner enough tonight.

“I’ll say,” one of the guards muttered, and not very discreetly, “he’s quite strong for a barbarian.”

Enkidu swiveled around at that.

The guard fixed a scowl in his direction before turning back to his companion. “Think he’s as tall as His Majesty?”

“Course not,” the other replied.

Enkidu shot them a look over his shoulder. Come to think of it, he was taller than the two of them by several inches.

Without so much as regarding him, the first one nudged the second. “Got a solid build, though.”

“Certainly bigger in bone.”

Enkidu knew by then not to look back, but he had to smother a look of utter shock. If this was what they meant. . . no, it made sense. Almost. If word about the marriage house had reached even shepherds, it would’ve reached the king’s guards. That didn’t excuse this. This, it was pointed. It was purposeful.

Even if it was borderline treason.

“So what’ll it be. . . height or strength?” the first one mused. “I’ll say, we may need to sit this one out.”

“His Majesty may prefer that. He can certainly defend himself.”

“Wouldn’t need much of our help at all, I’d add.”

By then, they’d nearly reached the doors. The guards cut silent, ending the most civilized discussion of treason Enkidu had ever heard. Perhaps they wanted the silence to let him take in the room’s splendor.

The corridor opened into a slim, closed-off hall with sloped ceilings and polished floors, electric lights shining through jewels, encased in filters so they glittered like flames. Friezes of painted clay hung from the walls like tapestries, etched with brilliant figures, marvels of art. Even if they’d been the most ancient of kings and the most terrible of gods, Enkidu didn’t give it more than half a moment’s glance. It was a magnificent, captivating sight. But even more so was the figure at the head of the room, lounging in a makeshift throne with a cup of beer in hand. Far from lazy, he felt the weight of a harsh gaze pass over the hall and just barely touch on him. He saw a man bedecked in finery, as if that would make him look regal.

As if that justified his tyranny.

A light, mechanical click behind Enkidu came as the bonds binding his wrist were shut off. That probably wasn’t proper protocol. He stretched, swinging his arms, then bringing them before him, tight. The guards, who just moments ago had compared his own strength to their king’s, quietly slipped out the doors to the outside halls.

The regal figure at the room’s head didn’t take any notice of this. A set of bored, half-lidded eyes passed over, then  _ through _ the wild man as if he wasn’t there. Until Enkidu raised his head, and the king’s expression changed entirely. He stiffened, dropping his drink and sitting forward, eyes just faintly widening as they crossed Enkidu, and the curled horns on his head. Then the king laughed. His face didn’t echo a trace of mirth.

“So it’s true? My subordinates  _ have  _ captured a mutant.”

Enkidu didn’t say a word. All else was silent as he crossed into the hall, feet marking harsh chimes on the too-polished floor. Then he raised his eyes. Once more, the king shrunk—then sat even further forward, intrigue conquering his uncertainty.

“One hour,” Enkidu murmured. “Isn’t that when you’ll be heading off to the marriage house?”

It took a single, clear moment, rigid with tension. This king, this man Enkidu had heard so much of—Gilgamesh—raised his head. He didn’t move an inch in his seat, his disinterested posture seeming to say,  _ What of it? _

Enkidu could’ve him everything that was wrong. He could’ve yelled, whispered, screamed. But this wasn’t an occasion for words. He’d win his battle in action—in one hour, or all would be lost.

“It was reported you were coming to Uruk with a petition,” Gilgamesh said flatly, beginning to sit ever so slightly forward. He couldn’t hide the way his eyes roved over Enkidu with curious, hungry intent.

Enkidu observed him. The man on the throne, at a glance, was so much more than a mere man. If Enkidu was sure of himself, Gilgamesh should’ve actually been a few inches taller than him. His build was strong, as Enkidu’s was. Bright, hungry eyes and an entitled air. He hadn’t needed the guards to toss that hint his way. No, he’d enjoy knocking some sense into this man.

“That sounds accurate,” Enkidu replied. Another step forward. He focused on the fight to come, not this momentary match of words. Not the intrigued flash that crossed the king’s face.

Gilgamesh twitched in his seat, visibly irritated. “And does the petitioner  _ have _ a petition?”

“Sort of. I think I’ll need to explain it first.” Enkidu peered up, his sly smirk all of a sudden hardening, splitting into an open growl. “What would happen if I caused another disturbance here, Your—uh, Majesty?”

Unfazed, Gilgamesh shot a glance at the head of the room for the guards. It took a long, blunt moment for the empty places beside the doors to settle in. His eyes turned back to Enkidu, narrowed with a sudden rage—and unless Enkidu was mistaken, genuine  _ alarm.  _ “What have you been plotting, savage?”

Enkidu continued, closing the distance between them. He stopped at the base of a few narrow steps, fists clenched. He remembered the radio, the desperate, hollow darkness. The injustice. “A king should be a shepherd to his people.”

“Do my people look like sheep?” Gilgamesh parried.

“If they were, they would’ve stood up for you.” Enkidu’s lips moved, not in a smile so much as a furious grimace. There he stood in that unfamiliar room with an unfamiliar man, a face he’d seen as a shadow in his dreams. His home was far beyond here, but whatever fate had made him tied him to this room. It filled him with white-hot, radiant fury, undying and ruthless as the sun. The fury carried him forward. He was vaguely aware of a dark bruise beneath his eye, throbbing as if in apprehension of his next action.

Gilgamesh had jerked to his feet, and he was every bit as threatening as they said. Even in harmless festival clothes he was inches taller than Enkidu, shaking and fuming. Everything the others had promised—a danger, a  _ challenge. _

“This is my city—my people. My rights and rules are set in  _ stone _ by me alone, and gods spare anyone who dares think otherwise.”

Another furious grimace, a not-smile. “The gods? You think they’ll back you?” Enkidu remembered the words of Shamhat, the stories. The people who cried out in their toil, and the gods who listened. The gods who sent him. “They’re the same as your people. If they wanted you, they would’ve shown up in their strength and stopped me.”

He couldn’t resist moving forward, rising up the steps. He could already tell how Gilgamesh would respond, the fervor and rage he’d put into their fight. He almost longed for it, blood dancing, heart throbbing. He readied himself.

That was all it took. The king didn’t even take a moment to think or question further, but slammed forwards with the strength of a bull. That wasn’t enough to deter Enkidu; he’d seen dozens of bulls in the wilderness, tackled and mastered them all. He sidestepped the blow and lunged at Gilgamesh’s shoulders. Then they met, tearing at skin and hair and pushing, clawing like wolves. Had this hall ever been as glorious as it was now, riddled with chaos in every possible way?

Enkidu dove into battle without question, his weight sending the both of them toppling backwards and forwards. He drove his fist into Gilgamesh’s stomach and carried forwards with him. They slammed against the floor, knocking aside tables and chairs, defacing the beautiful room. There was nothing to fear anymore.

The room slipped from his mind with each second of the fight. It narrowed down to just Enkidu and Gilgamesh, and their desperate, furious clash. The rock-hard force that met his blows was equal, if not greater, to every one of his attacks. His head smashed into the too-polished floors, defacing it, and he regretted nothing. He locked against Gilgamesh and uprooted him like a tree, and then they were toppling again. The world was a blur. His opponent kept him on his toes, racing for leverage as his limbs grew heavy. He threw himself at Gilgamesh and then he was rolling on the ground, lunging into the messiest battle of his life. They tore at teeth and hair, wrestling and kicking. Gilgamesh, strong as a bull, a god, would never go down without a fight. Enkidu matched him in speed and core strength, darting around his tall figure, slipping from his grasp until the other would lunge, and they would be rolling on the ground.

He was sure some sort of alarm should’ve gone off by now. There should be guards flooding the rooms, a city in outrage. No—the guards had left, and the city had raised its voice. He was sure Gilgamesh knew, in the mounting desperation of his blows. It only took that momentary slip of attention for Enkidu to go tumbling, slammed with full force against the hall’s heavy doors.

They shattered under the force. Dust flew and Enkidu strained to get up, blood dripping down his face. He regained his footing and clashed again, and then they were in the halls. None of this changed the ferocity of his movements, or the sheer power of Gilgamesh’s blows. He strained to get to his knees, then his feet, ducking below Gilgamesh’s blow. He pulled up and tackled the king when he found leverage, bringing them into the open. To the public.

Enkidu braced himself and butted his head, horns cutting gashes in Gilgamesh’s face. The king wasted no time with retaliation, bringing up his fist to land an iron-hard punch at Enkidu’s side. Wheezing, he regained his footing and tore at Gilgamesh’s skin. Things _ —expensive _ things, lanterns and statues and jewels—fell and smashed to pieces as they tumbled through, kicking and fighting all the way. Enkidu came back with shreds of fabric in his fingers, royal robes torn to shreds. He glanced down. There was fury in Gilgamesh’s eyes.

_ Not bad, _ Enkidu thought, seething at the memory of the radio. Of the events soon to come in half an hour if he stopped fighting. If he lost.

People had begun to crowd around, little pinpricks in Enkidu’s vision as he gave all his focus to the fight. They stood utterly still as Gilgamesh struggled again and again, the fight rising and falling. Enkidu dug in his heels and found himself rolling with his foe anyway, knocking down more precious artifacts, terrifying the onlookers.

_ See?  _ Enkidu nearly shouted, but he didn’t dare break his focus on the battle.  _ The people you terrorize will never take your side. And when your pillars shake, you and your injustice will fall. _

He said it instead with a kick in the king’s face, his point repeating itself as he drove his horns through torn robes and into smooth, thin skin. Gilgamesh tackled Enkidu, sending them rolling over the pristine floors for a few minutes. Blood dripped down Enkidu’s face, and it dripped down Gilgamesh’s. Their clothes were both torn, filthy as the skins of animals, tattered and slick with blood. Adrenaline and fury roared in their veins, but that blood spilled with every moment. Their blows were practiced, but the unbridled rage that carried them began to sag.

Never had Enkidu faced someone this quick, this strong. It brought him back to the days of running, the days of ignorance. If he’d ever fought Humbaba would he have been this glorious to take in, even in rage? He didn’t decide—not because he couldn’t. But a part of him didn’t want to. He didn’t want to see anything other than the fight that was, this breathtaking challenge. He was riding on waves of bloodlust, strength, sheer competitive spirit. The first two lagged further and further with each blow, but their fall only strengthened the last.

There was no time to speak, to curse and threaten his foe. Somehow Gilgamesh got the same impression. Enkidu found himself panting to keep up, yet barely noticing what was his own, mounting exhaustion. He slipped in line until every blow came as if it was scripted, as if this battle’s outcome had been decided long ago. He grunted, scratched, kicked, but the  _ end _ of this was shining ahead. It was something he wasn’t sure he could change no matter how hard or how little he tried. It was an inkling in his mind he couldn’t trace, and he couldn’t prove.

Gilgamesh pulled forward with a nasty punch in Enkidu’s face, slicing open his hands on the wild man’s horns. Enkidu’s hands were bleeding already. He tackled the king and lost balance, slipping on something slick he didn’t dare name. The hallway was a blur of shouting and bright lights and vicious, unrelenting battle. He poured all his thought into the battle, silencing the voice in his mind that urged him to do otherwise, that told him his fight would leave him a fool in the end for trying. He put his mind to his blows. His bloody hands. Gilgamesh’s face was pinched tight, one of his eyes swollen nearly until it was shut. Enkidu’s hair fell into his face, missing clumps. There were fistfuls of his hair in Gilgamesh’s hands.

_ “Shit,” _ Enkidu gasped, one knee unmoving on the ground. The trail of words went on even further in his head— _ childish, so childish, it’s like we’re fighting over nothing more than who’s stronger. Our hair’s in our hands. Our clothes are in tatters. Has it been an hour? Will it matter if the king misses the wedding? _

The distraction was enough for Gilgamesh to seize the advantage, slamming Enkidu against the corridor’s perfectly polished walls. Enkidu thought he felt something break, something important. Stone crackled behind the walls, and when he tried to stand again, blinding pain ripped through his left leg.

He did a double-take, throwing himself with his right leg as leverage and sliding across the floor. It was rough. He’d probably broken his leg, and didn’t dare put weight on it.  _ Gods. _ He had to keep moving, keep Gilgamesh from using this to get on top of him. He slid ahead on the ground, biting his tongue so hard it bled as his leg screamed with pain. He scrabbled in the rubble for a moment, all crumbled rocks and twisted pieces of metal from some sort of hologram machine, smashed pieces of pottery littering the spaces between. There wouldn’t be the time to get up, but he could take one of—

_ No time. _

Massive weight hit Enkidu from behind. He sprawled backwards, one hand tearing at skin, the other limp on top of his chest and clenched tight. Gilgamesh wrestled him to the ground, the bluntness of his movement carrying forward until he was sprawled over Enkidu’s chest. Enkidu screamed, feeling his leg twist impossibly beneath the weight. He butted his head, twisting his right hand upwards. His head hit empty air and fell flat, thudding to the ground.

The shard of twisted metal in his hand didn’t.

He twisted the thing in his hand, hooking his other arm around Gilgamesh’s shoulders to keep him from sliding off. The makeshift blade sank upward. The weight on his hand intensified, nearing the breaking point. He twisted it. The unmistakable  _ rip _ of skin breaking, flesh tearing, didn’t pass him. Pinned on top of him, Gilgamesh’s body gave one last thrash, then went very still.

Enkidu wrenched the metal out. It was the most he could do. Perhaps, if he’d kept twisting, he could’ve made the blow fatal. He could’ve ended the battle right there. Then again, Gilgamesh could’ve done the same in his position, pinning Enkidu to the floor, hands on his neck.

Gilgamesh gasped, limbs quivering. He didn’t need Enkidu’s release as a cue to roll off the wild man, landing limply in the ground beside him. In a pile of rubble. His hands clutched the wound in his chest, catching the pooling blood. Much more like a child than a king, he lay shaking, gasping, snatching glances over his shoulder at the wild man.

Damn that leg of his. Enkidu could’ve gotten up if it weren’t for the blinding pain, twisting his leg and forcing his body in place. His breathing came in sharp, pained gasps, never feeding his lungs the way he wished. It  _ hurt,  _ and left him helpless, and. . .

“Dear gods,” he rasped. He wasn’t sure where the words even came from, but in another moment he was rolling over, twisting his head towards Gilgamesh. Who was also lying limp, and more than exasperated judging by expression alone. “Did I kill you?”

Gilgamesh stared back flatly. Where the cloth hadn’t been ripped out of place, the entire front side of his robes were splattered with sticky, scarlet blood. His face was purple with bruises, and whatever elaborate style he’d fixed his hair into had been utterly disheveled. The blaring sirens didn’t add to the atmosphere, either.

Finally the king spoke, licking blood from his lips. “Far be it from a barbarian to be observant, but do I look dead to you?”

That wry silence stretched on for one more moment. Enkidu’s voice lowered, his low tone a near mockery of the king’s voice. “Far be it from a barbarian to swap words with you, but you don’t look very dead. I could help you in that, though.”

Another shrill of alarms broke the gap between speech, then Gilgamesh threw back his head. “What the  _ hell?” _

Enkidu couldn’t take it anymore. Rolling over, he dragged himself weakly to a sitting position and smothered his grin in his hand. It wasn’t enough to take away the laughter—obnoxious, childish laughter.

At first glance, Enkidu doubted it seemed very funny to Gilgamesh. He’d pulled himself halfway upright, clutching his wound with one hand. The other smothered his face, which—looking closer,  _ didn’t _ hide a set of gleaming eyes. Mirthful eyes. Not so far into this observation, a second voice had joined Enkidu’s fit of laughter. Then Enkidu was lunging forward again, slapping Gilgamesh’s hand from his face. He was shoved backwards a moment later, with about the same strength a child would use to kick a toy.

_ No way. _ Enkidu found himself sprawling backwards under that weak blow, shaking with a fit of relentless laughter. Laughter that was echoed as Gilgamesh joined in, drowning out the blaring alarms and stampeding footsteps. Everything hurt, and everything somehow felt alive despite that.

But a part of his mind stirred at the noise, scrambling for a puzzle piece it didn’t even know about. His laughter slowed, then died. He was vaguely aware of Gilgamesh, this man he’d never met before in his life, laughing with Enkidu as if he’d known him all his life. This time, the sound didn’t quite drown out everything else.

_ Footsteps?  _ If they were coming already, that meant—

Guards. At least six of them, squaring themselves around Enkidu and the rubble that remained of the corridor wall. His hands fell. He began crawling back from the rubble, palms sticky with blood that wasn’t his, dust everywhere the blood wasn’t. Pain flared up his left leg and his whole body went rigid, then utterly still.

For the second time that day, Enkidu stared right into the barrel of a gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer of a chapter this time, but the disaster himbos have finally met! For those reading, thank you for sticking with me! Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.


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